Bucca di Beppo:  “A table for two in the Loo? Whose name shall I put on the reservation?”

ME: “Glori–er–Bertha. Bertha Higgenbotham.

That was the name of your late grandmother? CURSES! Fascinating! No. No. I don’t plan to hold a seance in the Loo. Yes, I will send my love if she contacts me. Now, about that table…”

Last night my husband, niece and I had dinner at Bucca di Beppo. In a effort to prevent a lawsuit give recognition to their fine culinary skills, Bucca di Beppo offers a delicious chopped antipasto salad. It’s an entree-size serving for two (small) or three (large) and truly delights the palate with all manner of chopped goodies.

After I ate, I excused myself to visit the Loo, slipped from the booth, trying to hide my iPhone in the palm of my hand.

My nosy annoying observant husband asked why I needed my phone in the Loo.

I looked at him as if he had something stuck to the end of his nose. He did one of those cross-eyed things. Checking. I made a surreptitious an obvious brush of my fingers across my own nose and lips, and bolted while he searched for salad remnants on his face.

Within minutes, I stood in the Loo, camera at the ready,and  ignored the odd looks other patrons gave me as they entered and exited.

Waving *HI* to Emma, a delightful woman who shared my fascination with the artwork, and thought taking pictures was a dandy idea. I hope my explanation of blogging didn’t cause heartburn, Emma.


First up, we have advice relevant to all someone, somewhere.


My first reaction was, “why not?”

Why are those things bad? Since I didn’t have the problem referenced, there was no way to test what happened if I ran or jumped.

The “Do Cartwheel” option did not tempt me. I did not want to tempt fate.

Fate that blessed me mumble-mumble years ago in HS  Gym class. The class sat around a floor mat while our instructor asked for a volunteer to demonstrate a cartwheel. A chorus of voices exploded as if on cue. “Gloria! Make Gloria do it!”

Those so-called friends knew my cartwheel was more of a cart-ka-thunk. So, I stood at the end of the mat, cleared my head, did some “you can do this” self-talk.

And, I performed my first and only perfect cartwheel in my whole life (so far).

I moved on to learning to arch my back enough to smack the back of my  head with my foot.

If someone finds a useful application for this skill, please let me know.


This picture requires no explanation.

I couldn’t get a good angle for both the visual and the text without sitting on one of the sinks, so I took a quick snapshot of the words for you. If WordPress plays fair, it will appear below.


Lack of conclusive proof does not dampen my  belief that an appalled female developed the concept for this bit of dessert etiquette.

I’m told men have lewd and lascivious thoughts when witnessing a woman eating a banana. But, I digress, and come alarmingly close to losing my blogs PG13 rating. So.


My poor niece was stuck at the table with my husband while he fussed about what was taking so long. Had I been kidnapped? Climbed through a non-existent window?

He sent her in to check on me. She is SUCH a good sport.

Found it kind of strange funny to be a messenger between Mr. Impatient and Ms. Don’t Mess with My Glee.

I messaged a picture of what I was doing. She took her phone pic back to Uncle Cranky.

Good grief! Order some dessert of something! I’m busy in here. May I suggest a Banana Pudding?


The topic of the next in this series did not happen during my photo foray.

Thank goodness.

None of the suggested options (listed below) appealed to me. I also carried no scented handkerchiefs or hand fans into the loo. Apparently, back-in-the-day, a well bred woman did not leave home without them.

  • Say, “Oh, Mercy! I can’t breathe!”
  • Ever so casually, open a window or two
  • Say nothing and hold your breath
  • Cover nose and mouth with a scented handkerchief until the scourge dissipates
  • Whip out your hand fan
  • Pray silently


Enter my niece again. Laughing.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Gloria. He said to tell you he is ready to go.”

Goody-two-shoes for him. Tell him I have two nostrils to his one mouth.

Here, show him. I’m almost finished in here. Up there. Whatever


This picture is especially snort worthy because it brings back memories. Proof of why my husband would be better served most of the sometimes to keep his thoughts between his teeth.

Early in our marriage, I decided to surprise him when he came home.

I decided to vamp it up. Lacy, long, see-through black lingerie, bustier…

I was dressed and posed when he walked through the front door.

He stopped. Took a long look at me, and opened his mouth.

The words that rolled from his overly-suspicious brain and spewed from his mouth?

What have you done?

Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth!

Well, that was twenty-six years ago.

That black lace nightgown hangs in my closet, gathering dust. I have not worn it since. He had his chance and he blew it. So, honey, this next one’s for you!


NOT bashing men. Just saying…

Sometimes, you say the dumbest wrong thing at what might have been the right time.

How did I get onto that topic? Oh, right.

It’s because the women in the photos at Bucca di Beppo were from another era, IMHO. An era when femininity and keeping your man happy were our lot in life. Me? Give me a mud puddle.

So, what’s up? Did you find these pics nostalgic, funny, memory triggers? And, for all that is holy, can someone please explain why running, jumping or doing cartwheels while constipated is a bad idea? Leave words of wisdom or just say “hi!” Thanks for bopping in for a read.